


Times Two

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Crack, I was drunk, I'm so sorry, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Rimming, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Spitroasting, Top John, Victorian John, We're all going to HELL, cracky porn, double team, he pines a little first so that counts as plot right?, modern john, oHHHH GOD, oh my god guys, this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6520633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But you’re not that John…”</p><p>“Of course I am,” John’s lips and mustache brush against Sherlock’s mouth as he talks.  “All us Johns are that John, now.  That John is in every room in your Palace.”  He leans in for another messy kiss, tongue swirling all around the inside of Sherlock’s mouth.  “In fact,” he moves to suck on the sensitive skin underneath Sherlock’s ear.  “I think I hear him coming right now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times Two

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry, everyone. For everything.
> 
>  
> 
> But I'm not sorry for being lazy and doing the most scant amount of editing. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you want to sin with me [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

“Oh, dear, you showered, Sherlock. Thank goodness for that!”

Sherlock spins around from the window to see Mrs. Hudson place a tea tray of sandwiches--and of course tea--on the small table next to John’s chair. He watches with disinterest as she looks over to the kitchen table, where the tray she left for breakfast is still untouched. John has been gone, well, he’s not sure exactly, but it’s for sure _too many_ days. Nothing is interesting.

“Mmmm,” he grunts, eyeing the sandwiches (chicken salad, he’s sure she forgot and used celery), then turns despondently back to the window. He flicks aside one heavy curtain. Nothing outside. Everything is dreadful.

“Oh, Sherlock. John will be back tomorrow!” Mrs. Hudson’s heels click over to where he’s standing. “And you need to eat your lunch, young man. John will be none too happy with me if he comes home to find you wasting away.”

“You put celery in the chicken salad.”

“Yes, because you’ve always eaten it that way, no matter what you say to John. Oh, Sherlock,” she lays a small hand on his arm. “It’s only a conference. Your John will be back soon, no need for you to sulk about all week.”

John is at some _hateful_ conference about something Sherlock is fairly certain John told him, but he couldn’t be bothered to listen. Anyway, whatever it is could not be nearly as important or exciting as Sherlock, even if John did still go to boring, stupid Work sometimes or out to the pub with Mike Stamford or Gerard, other places that tended to be Sherlock-less. Those were barely tolerable. _This_ was the longest they’d spent apart since John returned to Baker Street and Sherlock had word-vomited sentiment all over himself while helping to change the bandages on John’s brand-new gunshot wound. After that, they immediately became Them, and has barely spent more than a day-at-the-clinic apart.

Of course there’d been texts and daily phone calls and some Facetiming at three o’clock in the morning and one disastrous (and somehow hilarious) attempt at Skype-sex, but it wasn’t the same. Sherlock couldn’t touch John, or smell him, and his voice sounded different over the phone. Sherlock had demanded John return home on six of the seven days he’d been gone, but so far John hasn’t returned, which is ridiculous, because Sherlock would most certainly leave a boring conference if John asked him to. Sherlock wouldn’t have gone in the first place.

“He could have taken me with him.”

“Oh, shush, Sherlock. You didn’t want to go.”

“There is an entire body of water between us, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock dramatically spins around, brushing past her and up over the coffee table. He flops on the sofa as dramatically as he can. “The entire Irish Sea is between us.” Maybe if he is dramatic enough, Mrs. Hudson will take away her chicken salad and make him a cake, which he _won’t_ share with John when he returns.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson sighs and shakes her head. Sherlock sneaks a quick glance at her; to his utter consternation, she’s smiling softly. As if she finds his pain funny, instead of heartbreaking. Her heels click over to the sofa and he feels her fingers gently stroke his curls once. John strokes them better. “He’s an hour and a half away by plane, and he will be back tomorrow afternoon besides.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond save for crossing his arms. Dramatically.

“I’m roasting a chicken for dinner, and you will eat some of it. John will notice if you’ve lost even an ounce this week.”

“Then he should be here to make sure I eat.”

“And I’m sure he will tomorrow, you awful, awful man,” Mrs. Hudson presses her hand affectionately against the top of Sherlock’s head, then _click-click-clicks_ her way back to the door. “Please eat, dear.” And with that she shuts the door and is clicking down the stairs. 

Sherlock uncrosses his arms with flourish, pressing his fists into the worn leather. He reaches blindly over to the coffee table, randomly grabbing until he finds his iPhone. He swipes it open and goes immediately to the message John sent before he dragged himself out of bed. _Good morning, love._

_Come home. SH_

He tosses his phone back onto the coffee table with a loud clatter. John won’t answer until the day’s presentations are finished, which is ridiculous. Sherlock doesn’t like this; he’s been itchy and twitchy and positively crawling out of his skin all week. He can’t remember how he survived two years, and then another year and a half, without the presence of John. His shirts feel scratchy and food tastes bland and the entire flat smells all wrong. He reaches back for his phone and types out another message.

_This is ridiculous John. Come home now. SH_

Surprisingly, this time there is an immediate response.

_I miss you, too. I’ll be home soon, love._

Well, at least John has acknowledged his misery. 

He glances at the clock lit on their relatively newly purchased Blu-ray player--John enjoys the worst movies--but it’s still resolutely blinking _12:00 12:00 12:00_ , which is fitting actually, seeing as that’s how time is feeling to Sherlock.

It’s ridiculous and positively hateful, the way he feels frayed at the edges, and unmoored, unable to concentrate, or to even want to concentrate, preferring to wallow in despair. But he can’t deny the sweet tinge to it, the fact that his loneliness isn’t the endless pit it was in the time before he met John, or even the bittersweet knowledge in the year and a half after his return that while he would willingly give himself to John, John would never be his in return, because John is only gone temporarily, John has a plane ticket for his return, John left only for a week, and John even asked him to go along but Sherlock being Sherlock had stubbornly said _no_ , hoping his refusal would make John see the light and decide to stay.

Sherlock misses him, and he _likes_ missing him, secure in the knowledge that he’s coming back, of course he is, _I miss you, too, Sherlock_ in a sleep-rough voice at three o’clock in the morning because Sherlock had a nightmare of the time _before_ and immediately Facetimed him, a poor substitute for John’s warm, solid body in the large bed next to him. But Sherlock is particularly adept at finding misery in even the best situation, Drama Queen and all (John is right, John is always right of course, Sherlock thrives on the melodramatic), and he doesn’t like being apart from John at all, having never been apart from John while they’ve been Like This, even if it is only for a week. 

Also, he’s horny as hell. His hand is a poor substitute for John, for John’s hand or mouth or the slick tightness of his body when they’re both in the mood for that, even when it’s John’s voice on the other end of the phone encouraging him. No, stupid, perfect John has seen fit to ruin anything that’s not his touch for Sherlock. It seems like every other thought or movement sends a twitch straight to his penis. Unacceptable. _Painfully_ unacceptable.

He looks at the blinking clock _12:00 12:00 12:00_ one last time, then settles further into the couch cushions, his fingers steepling under his chin. There’s nothing for it; he’ll visit for a bit. He hasn’t been in forever, not since that first morning they’d woken up tangled together, John pressing lazy kisses against his temple, and he realized he no longer needed to. Also hopefully it’ll get his mind off his dick and the fact that John isn’t here to play with it.

He enters the long hall, passing doors lightly closed and others heavily padlocked. The marble floor is cool under his bare feet--he won’t mind, Sherlock could show up in a burlap sack and he wouldn’t mind--as he passes hall after hall. He ignores two of the longer ones (one dark and lined with heavy suits of armour, rife with the smell of Mycroft’s ridiculous cologne, the other brightly lit, the carpet worn threadbare from frequent visits and smelling of Tesco laundry detergent and the generic smell of whichever-shampoo-is-on-sale) to a heavy wooden door at the very end. The door is shut, but not locked, not forgotten or shut away, just no longer required as it once was.

Sherlock sinks deeper, deeper, until he finds himself pulling the heavy door open and climbing steps in a dark, gas-lit stairwell. The door to the flat at the top of the stairs is closed, but he knows it’s unlocked and pushes it open. The lighting in the flat is muted, the air heavier, smelling of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco and borax. It also smells like John at his most stripped bare, one last addition before Sherlock stepped out and shut the door: warm and spicy, like a fire in autumn. Sherlock inhales deeply and steps over the threshold. He hasn’t been here in a long time, at least not in this room. He hasn’t needed to. Real life is so much better.

He steps into the sitting room, so much more a _parlour_ like this, and heads to the overstuffed leather chair in front of the bar cart. Embers are glowing in the fireplace, two gaslights and a single electric lamp (the red one behind the sofa, in front of a yellow smiley face and bullet holes-- it appears some things have bled over, interesting) light up the room. He sits in the chair, leaning back into the supple leather. Already he feels more peaceful. John’s other rooms down that brightly lit hall would only wind him up more, make the ache for John’s touch even more stinging will he waits through the end of this hateful day.

“What’s this, then?” A gruff, warm voice comes from the library. “Come to visit, my boy?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles. Watson strides into the room, looking powerful and strong and yet still cosy, wrapped in a thick quilted dressing gown. His hair is damp and swept back, his mustache unwaxed, and when he comes to a stop in front of Sherlock, he can smell rosemary Pears soap. “Watson.”

“Holmes.” Watson smiles warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, mustache twitching over his lip. He reaches out one hand, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, scratching affectionately at his scalp. “I think we’ve officially moved beyond that now, haven’t we? _Sherlock?”_

Sherlock leans into his touch, inhaling deeply as Watson--John--steps closer. He came for comfort, he _always_ came here for comfort, to a place he built for himself where he could bask in adoration he wasn’t sure he could have, or that existed, in the Real World, even if he built walls of remove and stoicism to keep himself safe while here. This Victorian World was a substitute, a poor one at that, but it was effective when he was alone in a foreign land or trying to breathe through the pain in his chest in a hospital bed. Now, it appears reality is bleeding through, bringing with it a bright red lamp and bullet holes and a Watson that touches him like John does and calls him _Sherlock_.

“I think so,” Sherlock smiles a bit shyly, but tentatively allows himself to follow this new variation. “Is that alright?”

“Of course, dear boy,” John winds his arm around the back of Sherlock’s neck and, to his surprise, lowers himself directly into his lap. “I would have prefered it much sooner though, if I say so myself. Although I’m not sure about that monstrosity of a lamp you brought with you. And Mrs. Hudson will not be happy with those holes in her wall.” He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. His mustache is scratchy and his soap smells different, but underneath it Sherlock smells _John_ and feels his familiar weight in his lap. “Now,” his lips and mustache move along Sherlock’s cheek, down to the corner of his mouth. “What’s wrong, darling? Are you upset? Unhappy?”

“No,” Sherlock relaxes into his chair, enjoying John’s mustache as it moves across his face with his mouth, soft scratches and the moist tip of a tongue against his skin. He wraps an arm around John’s back and can feel the ridges of the scar on his shoulder, ridges he now knows by heart and doesn’t have to imagine, even under the heavy dressing gown. “You were right. It’s wonderful. I’m wonderful.”

“Of course I was right.” Sherlock closes his eyes as John’s lips find the tip of his nose. His breath smells like tea and currant jam. “Why have you come to visit after so long?”

“John is gone.” 

“He is not,” John kisses Sherlock’s lips softly. The mustache doesn’t feel how he imagined it would against his upper lip. “You are being histrionic as always, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, he’s not with me,” Sherlock huffs, leaning his forehead in to press against John’s.

“Not right now, but he’ll be back. Besides, he’s in other rooms...so why did you come to mine, sweet boy?” Sherlock’s cheeks flush. This John, Watson, was comfort and warmth when he couldn’t have it. He was never loving like this, never teasing. “Oh.” John kisses kisses a hot cheek with a huff of realization. “You thought you had to separate us, even now. And you don’t want to think about those other things.” He kisses his other cheek. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my love.” John grinds his rear down into Sherlock’s lap, and it’s only then that Sherlock releases he’s erect in his pyjama pants. 

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps at the delicious friction. This is not what he had planned, coming here. In fact, he’d come here to _avoid_ this.

“Don’t be embarrassed, my love.” John presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “I know you’ve learned some new things in the time you’ve been gone...I’d love for you to show them to me.” He leans in and kisses Sherlock fully, mouth open. He tastes like John, real John, tea and jam and warmth and home. He pulls off his mouth with a wet *smack*.

“But you’re not that John…”

“Of course I am,” John’s lips and mustache brush against Sherlock’s mouth as he talks. “All us Johns are that John, now. _That_ John is in every room in your Palace.” He leans in for another messy kiss, tongue swirling all around the inside of Sherlock’s mouth. “In fact,” he moves to suck on the sensitive skin underneath Sherlock’s ear. “I think I hear him coming right now.”

Sure enough, Sherlock hears steps coming up the heavy stairs, slightly uneven where John now has a real limp from Mary’s bullet hitting his thigh. “Oh.” Modern John steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him, soundly. His eyes are burning dark, but his face is open and warm. He’s wearing jeans and the hideous oatmeal jumper. His feet are bare.

“What’s this, Sherlock?” Modern John squares his shoulders and puts his hands on his hips. Victorian John is still sucking and biting at Sherlock’s neck. “I leave for a week and you come here?” 

Sherlock feels a brief rush of shame before he sees the twinkle in John’s eyes, the teasing in his voice. John licks his lips. The shame flares into something different, something filthy and wrong and wonderful. This is new.

“Now, now,” Victorian John breathes into Sherlock’s ear, causing him to shiver. His words are directed at other John. “He was lonely, so he came to visit.” He kisses the shell of Sherlock’s ear and pushes his arse down into Sherlock’s erection again.

John strides purposefully across the room until he’s in front of the chair where Sherlock is already covered in...John. “I don’t know if ‘lonely’ is really it, is it, Sherlock?” John lowers himself to his knees beside the chair. He winds his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and tugs, not hard, but enough to pull his head around and away from John’s mouth. His kisses him hard, deeply, _possessively_. “Mine.” He tastes exactly the same, tea and jam and home.

Sherlock shivers again as Victorian John leans forward to recapture his earlobe while Modern John bites than laves at his lower lip. “You see, Sherlock?” He whispers into his ear. “He’s in every room, I’m in every room. We’re everywhere, my love.”

“Mmmm,” Modern John pulls off his mouth gently. “We are. I’m anywhere you need me, love.”

Sherlock feels a warm tug deep in his belly, the feeling he still gets when he John kisses him good-bye before leaving the flat, or when he wakes up with John spooned against him in their bed, or sees John’s toothbrush, nestled next to his on the bathroom counter. He opens his eyes. John’s eyes are right in front of him. “I know,” he whispers, with perhaps a bit more emotion than he meant.

“Good,” a calloused hand takes his chin and pulls it around into another heated kiss. A tongue swipes up his neck and circles around his other ear. 

“I think,” Modern John breathes, “I know exactly how to take care of you.” He reaches down in front of the body in Sherlock’s lap, cupping the crease of his groin, just touching where his fully erect penis is trapped in his pyjama pants. Sherlock whimpers.

“Well, we are pretty damn smart,” Victorian John whispers into Sherlock slack mouth. “I think I know exactly what to do.” He reaches down between their bodies, grabbing the other inside of his thigh. Sherlock’s penis is effectively being fondled by two separate Johns, and his mind is rapidly spiraling out of control. The air in the flat is growing even heavier, musky, as he is being lured into a very overwhelming situation by _two_ Johns, two of the most wonderfulperfectbeautifulheavenlyexquisite man who’s ever lived. A hand squeezes--Sherlock’s not even sure whose--and his hips jerk up.

“Like that?” A John whispers, mouthing wetly over the side of Sherlock’s face. One hand leaves his groin and the heavy weight in his lap is gone. He opens his eyes to see Victorian John standing, the front of his dressing gown tented impressively. 

“Let’s go somewhere we have my room, my boy. There are some things I want to do to you now that I can.” 

“Yes,” Modern John stands too. The front of his jeans are also bulging rather nicely. “I think you should show him what I’ve taught you, love.”

“Oh, God,” Sherlock gulps as each John grabs a hand, pulling him up and out of the chair. He feels lightheaded and unsteady on his feet.

“God is going to have nothing to do with this,” Victorian John leans in for another hungry kiss, pulling him along while Modern John pushes from behind. Sherlock isn’t sure how he makes it to the bedroom, but suddenly he’s there, _they’re_ there, someplace familiar and safe. If confusing.

“It’s our bedroom.”

“Of course it is,” Modern John leans up and bites at the back of his neck. “What else would it be?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says stupidly, as Victorian John invades the space in front of him, tugging his face in for another kiss.

“I think we’ve overwhelmed him.”

“Good. It’ll help pass the time.”

“Get you out of this.”

“Mmm, no pants. Perfect.”

“God, the things I’m going to do with you.”

Sherlock’s head is spinning, and before he knows it his dressing gown and pyjamas have been removed and his eyes are rolling back in his head as John--he’s pretty sure it’s Victorian John, he can feel the mustache following John’s mouth along his neck and shoulder--wraps his fingers around his cock and tugs once. “Ohhhh.”

“What a lovely noise, my dear,” John purrs, stroking hard. His other hand circles around Sherlock’s back to rest right above the cleft of his arse.

“Oh, he makes the best noises,” Modern John says as he crawls onto the bed. Sherlock watches over Victorian John’s shoulder as he positions himself with pillows against the headboard. His mouth waters; John’s very ample penis is fully erect, the head shiny with moisture and fully exposed. He looks directly into Sherlock’s face and gives himself a stroke. Victorian John’s fingers slip further down his cleft while he nibbles at Sherlock’s collarbone. His hips stutter, it’s almost too much, but John’s hand squeezes hard around the base of his penis.

“Oh, not yet, my love,” he looks up with hooded eyes. “We’ve barely started.” He kisses his lips sweetly, in utter contradiction to the mood that’s settling heavy over the room like a fog. It’s invading Sherlock’s brain, overwhelming his senses: heavy and musky, filthy and shameful and a little dangerous.

“Let’s give him a break,” John on the bed strokes his erection once more. A bead of moisture appears at the tip and Sherlock licks his lips. John smirks. “And I think he wants my cock in his mouth.”

“Please,” Sherlock rasps.

“Well, go on then,” Victorian John kisses his cheek, shifting behind him and pushing Sherlock towards the bed. He crawls onto the mattress, into the vee of John’s legs, the heady scent of John’s arousal invading his nostrils.

“Come here you,” he whispers, winding his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and gently guiding his head forward and down. Victorian John is kneeling behind him, his hand running lovingly down his side, the tip of his cock brushing against Sherlock’s thigh. He can feel it. He can feel everything right now. He slips his mouth over the head of John’s cock, relishing the briny taste of him, the velvety smoothness, hot and heavy in his mouth.

“Look at that,” John behind him exhales, fingers digging into his ribs. “That is glorious.” Sherlock sinks down further, opening his throat and bobbing, cherishing the heavy weight of John in his mouth. It’s enlightening, it’s grounding, while his mind spins down into a place it’s never dared go before.

“It is,” John moans below him, tightening his fingers in his hair. “Oh, fuck, he is.” Sherlock bobs deeper, swallowing around the head of John’s penis. 

“Yes, by Jove,” a wet tongue and mustache start moving down Sherlock’s spine, laving over his iliac crest, down to one buttock. He feels the nip of teeth. “Absolutely exquisite.” The mattress shifts and before he can react, hands are pulling his buttocks apart. “Gorgeous.” John’s mouth is suddenly in his cleft, nipping at his perineum and moving up to his hole.

“Oh God,” Sherlock pulls off and moans, his lips brushing against the sticky head of Modern John’s penis. Victorian John is lapping and sucking at his hole, his mustache rubbing deliciously against sensitive skin. “Oh, God...John…”

“Don’t you stop, you filthy thing,” Modern John above him growls, guiding his head back down to his cock. Sherlock sucks furiously, bobbing his head and pushing back into John’s face behind him. He moans again when he feels a finger replace the tongue in his arsehole, gurgling around the heavy erection in his mouth. The finger tugs down then presses directly into his prostate. The tip of his penis is rubbing tortuously against the duvet as he undulates, lighting every nerve on fire. John’s hips jerk under him. “That’s it.”

“Absolutely exquisite,” John behind him rumbles, circling and pressing inside him. The finger leaves him and Sherlock hears the quiet *snick* of a bottle opening (he has no idea where the lube materialized from), then three seconds later two fingers are pushing inside him. He groans again.

“Look at you,” Modern John is quivering beneath him, his hips rising off the bed to meet Sherlock’s mouth as he bobs up and down. “You love this. You love being overwhelmed like this.” 

“Yes, yes, oh!” Victorian John’s fingers scissor and twist, brushing repeatedly against his prostate. His entire body feels fuzzy, his brain heavy and slowed almost to a halt. Modern John lifts his head off his lap, pulling him up into an awkward, messy kiss, his back arching almost painfully while Victorian John continues to finger him, just on the side of too rough. 

Modern John licks at his chin, already wet with saliva, nibbling the skin of his cheek while Victorian John pulls his fingers out and immediately replaces them with the head of his cock. He’s just barely prepared, and it hurts as he pushes in, but his cry is muffled by Modern John’s groin when he pushes his head back down. “Suck,” he growls. Suck my cock while _I_ fuck you.”

Sherlock goes, frantically, as Victorian John starts to thrust, hard, every push of his hips pushing Sherlock’s mouth harder down onto Modern John’s throbbing penis. It’s painful, it’s exquisite, it’s utterly shameful and debasing but he can’t care, he couldn’t if he tried, he’s so overwhelmed by the presence of John, invading him, surrounding him, on both ends and all sides. John’s love is all-encompassing. John’s existence is everything, it’s sweeping and surrounding. It permeates all of Sherlock.

“That’s it,” suddenly John’s hands cradle his face and gently pull him off his cock. “That’s enough, sweet thing.” He awkwardly shifts up to his knees, resting Sherlock’s face against his sweaty thigh. “I want to watch as I fuck you.”

“It’s so good. So fucking good,” Victorian John rumbles behind him, snapping his hips forward hard. His fingers dig into Sherlock’s sides.

“Angle down,” Modern John leans over his back, pulling his buttocks apart with each hand. Sparks burst behind Sherlock’s eyes as his prostate makes a sudden entrance again. “That’s it. Look at that. Look at my cock inside you.” 

Sherlock moans and awkwardly wraps his arms around John’s hips, clinging to him. Victorian John has stopped moaning, stopped making any noise, but Sherlock can still feel him, pounding hard into his body.

Modern John, however, continues talking. His lovingly massages his left buttock, lifting the other to come up and hold the back of Sherlock’s head. “That’s it, love, you take that so well. You always take me so well.” His finger runs around the edge of Sherlock’s hole, tight and filled to the brim. “When he comes, I’m going to fuck it deeper into you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock tries to speak but he can only sob, the thrusts behind him picking up speed. “Shhh, shhh,” Modern John croons, stroking up his sweaty back. “Almost, I’m almost there.” His voice is the only sound in the room aside from the whispering of the linens rubbing together. Suddenly the hips behind him still, and he feels the pulse of hot wetness inside of him with a low grunt.

“Oh, fuck,” Victorian John has found his voice. “Oh, fuck. You are the most perfect, sublime creature in existence.” He pulls out roughly. “Turn over for me, my boy.” Sherlock is flipped bodily by two sets of sturdy hands, sprawling out on his back. “You are ready to burst, aren’t you, darling?”

Before he can respond, his mouth is being devoured by wet lips and a bristly mustache. Strong arms circle his shoulders, soothingly, but at the same time his legs are being lifted over shoulders and a cock is pushing roughly inside his tender hole.

“Mine,” Modern John growls above them. He starts rocking, then thrusting, Sherlock’s arse resting on his thighs, so the head of his cock pushes directly against his prostate. His entire pelvis is starting to feel so heavy it’s almost numb. Victorian John pulls out of the kiss with more tenderness than Sherlock can believe possible.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his eyes dark and sated. “So gorgeous.” He looks down Sherlock’s body. His cock is so hard it’s painful, the head dark and leaking copiously on his stomach. “You’re ready, aren’t you?” His fingers drift down, lightly brushing up the underside of his penis. Sherlock jerks violently.

“So ready,” Modern John grunts above them. “You’re ready, aren’t you?” He echoes, the voice, the tone, completely the same.

“Please, please,” Sherlock gasps against Victorian John’s face. John guides Sherlock’s hand to the back of his head, and Sherlock grabs, something to hold onto as Modern John continues to pound him into the mattress. “Please.” Victorian John kisses his neck, the scar next to his sternum, down to his belly and then--Sherlock’s vision sparks as mustache and lips and tongue reach the head of his cock. Warm wet suction, then his back arches and white light crests and floods his body, up his spine and down his toes. Modern John thrusts through the clenching of his body, once, twice, and Sherlock can feel him swell and pulse inside him, Victorian John continuing to suckle and swallow down the head of his penis.

Sherlock’s breath leaves his lungs in a loud rush. Victorian John lets his penis slip from his mouth and crawls back up to kiss him, hungrily. There’s still a bit of semen in his mouth and it’s somehow both filthy and tender, obscene and painfully loving. Sherlock whimpers when he pulls away to press hot kisses to his cheek, to his neck, settling next to him and wrapping an arm around his waist.

Modern John above him is softening but still inside him, arms around his lifted thighs. Sherlock feels like he’s floating, his limbs light but heavy enough to sink into the mattress around him, surrounded completely by John, secure and safe with John. No matter where (or when) he is. John is there. His mind starts to quiet. He feels content. Modern John is pressing kisses against Sherlock’s knee while Victorian John is breathing heavily in his ear. Everything is fine and perfect and lovely. 

The mattress inexplicable shifts underneath him.

“I think someone is here, my dear.” Victorian John kisses his cheek once, mustache tickling.

“What?” Sherlock exhales, not really caring.

“Sherlock. Hey, love. Sherlock…” Modern John is no longer kissing the inside of his knees, but is looking at him with an exasperated, but affectionate, look. “Sherlock,” he says again.

Sherlock’s eyes pop open and he squints in the electric light of the flat. He blinks several times, and John, REAL John, comes into focus. He is sitting on the edge of the sofa, still in his coat. The tips of his ears are tinged pink. The look on his face is exasperated, but affectionate. This is unexpected.

“There you are,” John says dryly. 

“John. You’re early.”

“Yes, well, I was as miserable as you were, apparently. Thought I’d duck out early and surprise you.” He puts his hand on Sherlock’s hip, where his iliac crest is peaking above where the waistband of his pyjama pants had ridden down. “But you appear to be busy.” He nods towards Sherlock’s crotch, where his softening penis is out of his pyjamas and in his (sticky) hand.

“Oh,” Sherlock looks blandly down at the mess on his t-shirt. He shrugs. John has certainly seen him in more embarrassing situations, and this is entirely his fault anyway. “How long were you watching?”

“Long enough,” John pointedly adjusts himself in his jeans. Interesting. Intriguing.

“I was in my Mind Palace.”

“I can see that,” John looks pointedly at the streaks of semen on Sherlock’s belly. He affectionately squeezes his bony hip. “Please tell me I had skin this time.”

“There were _two_ of you.”

“Oh my God, Sherlock.”

“I believe the act is called ‘spit roasting,’ John. I imagine there’s been plenty of pornography made if the implication of the name isn’t clear to you.”

“You are absolutely disgusting, you know that?” John arches an eyebrow, but his eyes are twinkling and warm. He pushes up Sherlock’s tacky t-shirt to brush his fingers over his belly. “A deviant.”

“I should look into if it is possible to have molded replica made of your erect penis.”

“Deviant,” John sinks lower, shifting his legs up to straddle Sherlock’s and laying in the mess on his belly. Sherlock can feel his denim-covered erection. “Although, I don’t know that I want to go on such long trips again unless you come with me, so you won’t need it.”

“I told you, but you wouldn’t listen,” he wriggles under John; the denim is rubbing in a deliciously uncomfortable way against his still overly sensitive penis. “Besides, that has no bearing whatsoever on if I’d use it. Or rather, _we_.”

“Absolutely filthy,” John lowers his head and kisses Sherlock, a sweet hello-kiss at first, then he boldly licks the seam of his lips and his tongue wriggles inside. “I missed you, beautiful,” he whispers into Sherlock’s mouth before diving back in and suckling rather messily on Sherlock’s tongue. “How long until you’re ready to go again? I was rather looking forward to surprising you, and fucking you over the edge of the couch.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock purrs, low in his throat, ignoring his own slight discomfort to push his hips up into John’s erection. “Judging by my average refractory period, I’d say in about twelve to fifteen minutes.”

“Good,” John pulls Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth. “Just enough time for me to get you just _gasping_ for it. Then I’ll give you something else to collate away in that filthy Smut Palace of yours.”

“I’m fairly certain it actually belongs to _you_.”

John rubs his nose against Sherlock’s. “Good,” he pushes his hips down and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha! Now you're all going to hell too!! S'ok, I have a sweet condo right on the banks of the River Styx.
> 
> In my very legitimate defense, I was very drunk when I thought of this. Very, very drunk.


End file.
